


A Dark and Stormy Afternoon

by etherealApostate



Category: K (Anime)
Genre: Blood, M/M, Self-Harm, trans yata is a thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-13
Updated: 2017-03-13
Packaged: 2018-10-04 04:50:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10268636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/etherealApostate/pseuds/etherealApostate
Summary: hi its 3:30 am and here is more k fanfiction??????





	

**Author's Note:**

> Id also like to note that this is p much vent art, from the perspective of a trans guy, wrt places ive been in the process of my transition. Even though im 100% trans, I frankly didn't try to make this representation 100% nonproblematic/tropey/whatever, bc thats not what i felt like making at the time. I resent feeling like i need to justify that, but honestly i do want to contextualize it, at least. So please take that into consideration.

The scream played over in Yata’s mind, behind the sudden rise in his pulse and the sounds of his worn rubber soles on the wet concrete as he ran. Turning the corner, he slipped in one of the fast-accumulating puddles by the alley entrance. He fell without coordination, as if his limbs had more correlation to the gravity that pulled them down than to the joints that bound them. 

 

Looking up (his bangs hung heavy with rain, and he had to shake them away), he made out a figure doubled over maybe five feet away. The smooth blue of a SCEPTER 4 uniform registered first, but it took Yata a moment longer to recognize the face he was staring up at from the rough ground. Contorted, flushed deep, and hung with an uneven veneer of raindrops; Fushimi Saruhiko was swaying before him, eyes rolled back in his head. 

 

Yata scrambled to his feet, quickly scanning the rest of the alley; its emptiness bled into the next street it connected to, and he saw no other figures in the shadows. The pain of a heavy scrape on his unprotected knee made itself known as he pulled away from the concrete, but Yata couldn’t pay it any mind. Instead, he grabbed Fushimi’s shoulders, straightening his friend up and getting directly in his face.

 

“Hey! Saruhiko! What happened?” Yata’s mind was racing into panic as Saruhiko forewent a response in favor of slumping his head forward and letting a string of drool creep from his mouth to mix with the rain. Yata let out a frustrated yell and cast his gaze around the alley again; no sign of anyone else. 

 

“Fine! Fine. I’ll get you to SCEPTER 4….” He shook Saru briskly, and Saru’s eyes rolled down to focus momentarily with Yata’s, before the lids dropped shut and Saru fell forward into Yata’s arms. Yata stumbled back, then braced himself to put Saru’s arm about his shoulders -- he froze now, however, as the sky dropped out. 

 

The humid light of a sun shining through heavy rain was gone -- now thunder clapped in the distance, and something struck Yata on the shoulder. He jumped, looked down -- “Oh, oh  _ fuck _ .” A chunk of hail almost the size of a golf ball was rolling away from where it had hit him, and he began to hear the sounds of other hailstones dropping around the two of them. 

 

Yata took a deep breath and hoisted Saru (now fully limp) into a proper fireman’s carry, and began to hurry out of the alley and down the block. He prayed that the hail would stop soon, that it would spare them. The last thing either one of them needed now was a concussion….

 

In more time than he would have liked, Yata was at the door of his apartment building. The grocery bag and skateboard, abandoned moments after he had heard Saru’s scream, lay soaked beside the stoop. Yata growled and punched in the access code, dragging Saru hurriedly inside. 

 

Although the hail and rain outside continued to pound, the inside of the apartment building felt almost spacelike, a cold vacuum of noise and warmth and life, as Yata dragged his friend’s limp form up the flight of stairs to his apartment. His mind turned worriedly:  _ what to do? _ He couldn’t risk taking Saru anywhere in this weather; public transit would likely be closed, and what kind of idiot would drive a taxi in a hailstorm? Freeing one hand, Yata unlocked the door to his apartment, dragged Saru inside, and draped him as gently as possible on the worn couch. 

 

He closed the door, locked it, and leaned his back against the painted metal for a moment. Yata’s eyes drifted unconsciously again to Saru’s face, the darkness of the apartment shrouding his features gently. Dry clothes. And then…. Saru probably needed water. And definitely needed not to be unconscious for long. Biting his lip, Yata pulled up the Internet platform on his watch -- wait. No signal, no wifi either….

 

“God  _ damn it! _ ” Yata muttered. “Don’t tell me the power’s out!” He flipped the light switch angrily, then twice, to no response. “Seriously!?” 

 

_ Fine _ . Fine! He dismissed his PDA screen and strode to his trunk, pulling out clothes indiscriminately, then slamming it closed. As he stripped and dressed himself (old sweatpants, a black tank), his anger faded to a feeling of purpose tired with frustration. 

 

Yata paused as he pulled at the tank’s edges, adjusting them. Saru would need dry clothes as well. He bit his lip, and hesitantly re-opened the trunk to pull out a sweatshirt and a pair of pajama pants. Those had always been too long for him; they might fit Saruhiko, right? 

 

He moved to sit on the edge of the table, opposite Saru’s supine form. The lip-biting had turned into a studied pulling-away of the outer layers of skin. Might as well get it over with. Eyes now instinctively averted from Saru’s face, Yata gently removed the rain-streaked glasses and heaved Saru to first one side, then the other, pulling the arms from their wide dress-coat sleeves. He spread the coat on the ground, hoping it would dry better like that, thinking about where else he could put it (because he really didn’t want to think about undressing  _ Saru _ of all people, and -- oh god, he was so glad Saru was unconscious, even if it did make this kind of even more pervy….) and slowly did the same for Saru’s waistcoat and shirt, trying to focus more on what he was doing with the clothing than what the lack of clothing revealed. 

 

Yata couldn’t help his eyes’ quick skim of Saru’s slightly-damp torso and arms He noted the dappled circle of a bite mark, apparently human, congealed over with blood, on Saru’s right arm. Numbly, he noted as well the otherwise smooth, uninterrupted expanse of skin, how it lay and folded exactly like it should, and something shameful welled inside his chest. As he pulled the dry sweatshirt over Saru’s lax shoulders, he found himself intimately grateful that Saru was not undressing  _ him _ . 

 

_ Oh, come on _ , a voice sounded in the back of Yata’s head.  _ Saru’s a smart guy. He probably just liked less  _ easy _ ways of hurting you. It would’ve been too simple for him to just--  _

 

“Shut up,” Yata muttered to himself, and gently began unbuttoning Saru’s pants. Again he pulled clinging cloth from cool flesh (flesh that his fingers, as carefully as he kept them away from Saru’s bare skin, found undeniably soft), and when he had them almost all the way off, he cursed himself for not having removed Saru’s boots first. The boots, socks, and pants joined in turn the careful array on the floor of Saruhiko’s clothing, and Yata hurried to pull the blue pajama pants over Saru’s hips. 

 

In a split second, Yata found his head pressed against Saru’s sternum, and rising, as a strong hand gripped his hair. 

 

“S-Saru?” Yata sputtered, taken aback that his friend was even conscious this soon. “I-I swear, it’s not what it looks like, I didn’t want you to get pneumonia is--” he stopped as his head was raised enough finally to meet Saru’s gaze.

 

Saru’s eyes, rolling and turning, fixed on Yata’s, and Saru’s mouth began to split in a wide smile. Unsteadily, he disentangled his hand from Yata’s hair. 

 

“Thank you,” Saru whispered, and spat in Yata’s face, and fell back again, giggling gently, his head hanging off the end of the couch. 

 

“What -- “ Yata rubbed the spit from his face, recoiling. “Saru-- are you ok? At all? Have you gone full fucking psycho on me? What happened? What in the hell bit you!?”

 

Saru shrugged himself down onto the couch so that his head was resting on the arm, and his legs were circled loosely around Yata’s midsection. Yata tensed, but did not move; instead, he watched Saru’s unfocused eyes and waited for some kind of response. 

 

“Strain,” was all that Saru said. 

 

Yata nodded, and slowly disentangled himself from Saru’s legs to stand. “OK… you should tell me more when you feel better, OK? I can’t take you to the hospital right now -- so, I guess I’ll make us some food. You probably need it, right?” 

 

Saru didn’t respond. Yata let him be, moving into the kitchen area. No time for anything fancy. Ramen with egg would have to do. When he re-entered the living room, however, the two pairs of chopsticks braced between his teeth fell to the floor, and it was all he could do to not drop the bowls of hot soup as well. 

 

Saruhiko was sitting up now. One arm was extended in front of him, in a gesture that could have come from a Roman orator if not for the clenched tension in its fist. His other arm gripped one of his throwing knives, and Yata watched in transfixed horror as the point moved slowly through the skin, leaving in its wake a fat line of blood that extended almost to his wrist. 

 

Saru’s gaze was contemplative, detached, and did not leave his work as he said, “Don’t worry. It won’t make much of a mess.” 

 

Something boiled in the back of Yata’s throat, and he strode over to slam the bowls of soup down onto the table. He remained leaned over as he met Saru’s eyes, staring at him as if by sheer intensity of gaze he could reverse Saru’s actions, force him away from the disinterested fixation of the blade now stilled a half-centimeter deep in his forearm. 

 

_ “Saru.”  _ Yata paused for a moment. “WHO GAVE YOU THE FUCKING RIGHT!” He slammed a fist down onto the table. Saru tilted his head, not moving the knife. 

 

“Yours always looked uglier-- “ and now he pulled the knife smartly from his arm, leaning forward to tap at Yata’s own wrist “--didn’t they?” 

 

Yata grabbed Saru’s wrist, lost in rage and confusion, and drew back his other arm to land a punch -- until he noticed the slender string of saliva hanging again from Saru’s mouth. Yata dug his nails into Saru’s wrist, then purposefully released it, using his other hand to wrench the knife away. 

 

“OK. You’re… you’re not in your right mind, Saru,” he muttered, wiping the blood from the knife onto his sweatpants. Eyes averted, he picked up Saru’s coat from the floor and went to stow it in the trunk. There would be no more repeats of this scene tonight. 

 

When he returned, Saru was asleep again, head lolled back on the couch. Yata sighed deeply, sat beside him, and pulled his own bowl of ramen close. He played with the noodles for a few moments, not really able to bring them to his mouth, and then set the bowl back down. 

 

_ I give up _ .

 

He looked back at Saru, and his mouth furrowed at the side in sudden care. Yata raised one hand to wipe away the string of drool from Saru’s mouth, and hoped that the storm outside would relent soon, that he could get Saru to safety, that Saru wouldn’t resent him….

 

Saru moved in his sleep, his freshly cut arm spilling into Yata’s lap; Yata flinched slightly at first, then looked again at the arm, transfixed. 

 

The cut was about five inches long, and almost mathematically precise, drawn perfectly up the center of Saru’s arm. The blood at the edges of the split was beginning to congeal. With a pang, Yata knew his friend would regret this. He felt a need to undo it, to heal it, in a way he’d never done for his own scars -- not the scars on his arms that testified to the worthlessness of his own body; not the scars on his chest that had one day given his body an eke of value. 

  
As if in a trance, Yata lifted the limp arm up slightly, and bent his head, pressing his lips to the cool flesh. Sucking gently, he pulled away with his tongue the jagged crust and slime of salty redness. His mouth worked all the way down the cut, kissing and cleaning, and when he pulled away he rubbed lightly at its edge with his thumb. The noise of the storm faded into a grey nothing as he cradled Saru’s hand in his lap (the gap between their fingers a palpable absence) and rested his head back on the couch, falling asleep. 


End file.
